


One Step Ahead

by SherlockianMinty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Death, Depression, Featuring an alternate fluffier ending, Grief, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major character death - Freeform, Self-Harm, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Trigger warnings all over this, bereavement, gun mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianMinty/pseuds/SherlockianMinty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a job goes terribly wrong, Jim will do anything to save Sebastian Moran</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Now, don’t go making this difficult, Billy.” The criminal murmured as he drew closer, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Just give me those names, and I might decide not to set the Colonel on you.”  
Jim paused a hair’s breadth from the other man, relishing his shiver of fear.  
“I think you remember how skilled he is, don’t you, Mr. Wesson?” He whispered with a serpentine smirk.  
“All too well, Moriarty.” The man echoed Jim’s own grin, prompting it to twist into a perturbed frown. “And that’s why he’ll never hurt anyone. Ever. Again.”  
“I’m sorry? I don’t-” But then he saw the moonlight glint through the rain off the polished barrel of the rifle on the roof. Then he heard the gunshot. Then he watched the pistol fall from his sniper’s hands.  
He was already running as the blond man began to fall, heedless of the man he was threatening not two minutes before fleeing the scene.  
“Sebby!” Jim screamed. “Sebastian! No - please- Seb - talk to me - please, I-”  
Jim Moriarty didn’t remember falling to his knees, couldn’t recall pulling Moran into his arms. Tears fell down his face, mixing with the rain, as his broken pleas fell on unconscious ears. This was his fault, all his fault. Why didn’t he predict that? Wesson never hired gunmen. Why? Why now? Why?  
“Why?” He yelled into the suffocating night.  
He pressed shaking fingers to the man’s neck, searching desperately for a sign of life. Shivering and sobbing as he was, Jim almost missed the faint throb of blood in Sebastian’s jugular.  
Jim Moriarty wasn’t a strong man – that was why he hired people like Colonel Moran. Now he regretted every time he refused his sniper’s offers to train together as he attempted to lift the six foot two dead weight – not dead yet, his numb mind supplied – of bodyguard. Through sheer force of desperate will Jim lifted the sniper into his arms, weak with cold, making him stagger a few paces across the deserted alleyway.  
It was now that he truly saw the blood spreading across the man’s chest.  
Jim looked around him, bewildered, his mind deserting him entirely until there was just one place his mind could think of. One last hope of saving Sebastian.  
*******  
John groaned. He had been awoken by a loud, frantic thudding on the door of 221b Baker Street.  
Sherlock wasn’t lying beside him, so he assumed he must be awake, theorising. Does he ever sleep, John thought, as the banging became even louder. He also began to grumble at Sherlock’s apparent inability to open the door.  
His bed was soft, and so comfortingly warm that John almost considered not leaving it. But if someone was calling at… Good God, twelve past midnight - John groaned to himself – it had to be important.  
Dr. Watson dragged himself out of bed, fumbling for his dressing gown, and shuffled towards the living room with a yawn.  
Predictably, he saw Sherlock lying stretched out upon the sofa, his eyes closed, and his palms pressed together beneath his chin.  
“Oh, don’t mind me, Sherlock. It’s not like I was asleep, or have work in the morning, or anything. No you just lie there three feet from the bloody door, I don’t mind answering it.” John grumbled at the almost comatose figure.  
Sherlock Holmes gave a noncommittal grunt in response.  
John rolled his eyes, and pulled the door open anyway. He froze.  
“Please, Doctor Watson, you’ve gotta help me.” James Moriarty was standing on his doorstep, tailored suit soaked through with rain and his usually pristine black hair plastered to his forehead which was wrinkled with frantic worry.  
“Please, I can’t take him to a hospital; he’s been shot - I -he-” Moriarty started babbling in panic, fresh tears falling down his face.  
John couldn’t move, so shocked was he by the sight of the criminal mastermind so distraught and helpless. Sherlock, however, was not so inactive. At the first sound of the Irishman’s voice he had shot up from the sofa, towering in the doorway beside John.  
“Did you really think we’d fall for your tricks that easily, Moriarty?” He sneered. “What is it this time? Have us invite you in, only for your pet sniper to whip out a pistol and blow our heads off?” He laughed derisively, “we weren’t born yesterday, Moriarty, we can see through your pitiful attempt at deception.”  
Jim was shaking harder now, but Sherlock seemed not to have noticed. “Please,” he said again, “I swear, I’m not - No tricks, I just…”  
He sobbed again, and John looked helplessly up at his boyfriend.  
Sherlock caught his gaze. “You can’t seriously believe him, John? This is just an elaborate ruse to catch us with our guard down.”  
He looked more disconcerted as John’s expression hardened defiantly.  
“John, you’re not seriously-” Sherlock began, astonished.  
“Bring him in here.” John commanded, swinging the door back to allow the criminal access. “He can go on the sofa.”  
“No, he can’t, John-”  
“Shut up, Sherlock.” John yelled as he grabbed what few medical instruments he kept at the flat from the kitchen table.  
“Thank you, oh thank you, Doctor Watson.” Moriarty panted, laying the sniper out tenderly on the cushions before collapsing from the force of his terror.  
John tore the man’s shirt open, revealing the bullet wound above his heart.  
“What was the trajectory?” He asked, as he pressed bandages against the bleeding flesh.  
“I – what?” Jim said, flustered.  
“Where was he shot from? Quickly, tell me.” John ordered, checking the sniper’s pulse.  
“I - I don’t know. I don’t remember, just heal him. Heal him now!” The criminal yelled in panic.  
John slapped him. He would have laughed at Moriarty’s expression of shock if the situation hadn’t been so dire. “If you want him to live, I need you to calm down and tell me - where was the sniper?”  
Jim breathed out, training his eyes on Sebastian’s face, drained of all its usual vivid colour.  
“The roof.” He replied, his voice steady now. “The gunman was on the roof.”


	2. Chapter 2

At this moment, John couldn't picture the slumbering Irishman slumped in Sherlock's desk chair as the infamous master criminal with whom they had battled for years. It had taken him a fevered hour of stitches and demands of trajectories and rifle calibres before Dr. Watson had proclaimed the sniper stable. He had advised Moriarty that he be left to rest until midday, promising that he would watch over him to ensure that there were no turns for the worse during the morning.  
Jim was exhausted, eyes wild and stained with tears, but he refused to sleep while Sebastian could still be in trouble. He had sat stubbornly down beside Moran, his brown eyes staring into the darkness. Sighing, John admitted defeat almost immediately, instead electing to take Jim a cup of tea to last him through his vigil. It was Sherlock who had eagerly provided the sleeping pills John added.  
The dawn light had long since filtered through their navy curtains when John saw the colonel stir. Despite the drugs, this almost imperceptible movement alone was enough to rouse the criminal. He jerked awake, sitting bolt upright in his chair, his eyes wide as he looked back towards Moran.  
"Jim," the man croaked, his confusion clear in that rasped word, "Boss, what's happening? Where...?"  
Only then did he turn his gaze to his surroundings, recognising the flat's interior, and John's concerned face as it drew nearer to check his vitals once more. Scrambling backwards, Moran reached into his back pocket for the gun that was no longer there. In desperation, he lashed out towards the doctor with his bare fists. John managed to deflect the blow just as Jim said sharply:  
"Don't, Moran. He..."  
He cast a soft look at John.  
"He saved you, Seb."  
"You were shot." John explained as Sebastian slowly lowered his arm. "Moriarty..." He coughed, "Jim brought you here, and I fixed you up the best I could. You'll need to be careful with those stitches for a few weeks. I'd give it a month before you are fully recovered."  
He glanced nervously between the two men.  
"You're very lucky, really. Steep trajectory, the bullet... just missed your heart... um..."  
Jim had glanced away, his eyes trained on the floor as he wiped a tear from them.  
"Hey," Sebastian grinned, "I'm ok, Boss, you can't get rid of me that easily."  
The criminal sobbed aloud, flinging his arms around his bodyguard and burying his face in the crook of his neck.  
"I was - I was so worried, Sebby." He whispered brokenly. "I thought you were going to die and - and it was all my fault."  
He clung onto him more tightly, a new wave of tears flowing forth.  
"I should've - should have calculated, I mean - we swept, we swept the whole area, but he - he was one step ahead of me. I let myself get distracted, and I almost lost you, Sebby. I - I'm sorry - I'm so, so, sorry, Sebby, please -"  
"Hey, hey," Moran pulled the smaller man up to face him, wiping a tear from his cheek with a calloused thumb, "it's not your fault, Jim. It's just part of the job."  
"A job I gave you," he insisted, "a job that almost got you killed."  
"Stop blaming yourself, Jim, please. I swear I will always be here, yeah?"  
"You'd better be." Jim smiled through his tears, drawing the marksman into a tight embrace.  
"And John." Moran called as the doctor turned away, intending to leave the two with some privacy. "Thank you. If anyone has reason to refuse me treatment, it's you, so - thank you."  
"I did my duty for you, as I would for any other." John paused. "And I," he cleared his throat, "I know how it feels, and I, quite literally, wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy." They laughed together. The doctor and the killer.  
"I'm just going to make some tea. You're welcome to join us in the kitchen, if you feel up to it. And, um, you're welcome to stay as long as you need to. Sherlock'll probably kill me, but - yes, well - as long as you need to."  
Moran smiled again. "That's awfully generous of you, John, but I assure you that we'll both be out of your hair as soon as we can make some arrangements."  
He ran his fingers tenderly through Jim's hair as John left. He switched on the kettle before stretching up to the teabags - on the top shelf, he noted, which meant that Sherlock was annoyed with him. He had just managed to dislodge the box with a long spatula when he heard Sherlock enter the room  
"They're still here, then?" The detective asked nonchalantly.  
"Yes, for as long as it takes for Sebastian to recover." John replied, without turning.  
"Good. That's good."  
John span around, shocked.  
"Good? I thought you hated it? You said that they didn't deserve our help."  
"Yes, well," Sherlock looked at his feet sheepishly, "you were right. They should stay."  
He rounded the table, rising on his toes to give Sherlock a soft kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."  
The kettle's whistle accompanied the sound of Sherlock's bedroom door opening. Sebastian Moran shuffled through it, leaning heavily on Moriarty, his face ashen from the effort. John rushed to pull out a chair for the injured man before pouring four cups of tea.  
Jim sat beside his bodyguard, lacing their fingers together on the table top. Sherlock sat stiffly opposite him, silently accepting his tea from John. Three more steaming mugs met the kitchen table to gruff thanks before John sat, stretching out his stiff leg.  
Silence descended in the flat for several minutes, the men sipping at their scalding tea without meeting each other's eyes. John was about to suggest biscuits when a door beneath them slammed open. Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.  
Moran's mug slipped from his fingers, smashing on the tiles.  
He quickly stood, his face draining of what little colour it initially had.  
The flat's door crashed open.  
Sherlock smirked.  
"Ah, Lestrade. What kept you?"


	3. Chapter 3

Moriarty’s face hit the kitchen door with a sickening crunch, his arms jacked tightly behind him until he thought they might break. The cold metal of handcuffs chilled his wrists, and he began to scream. Moran’s name was the only thing on his lips as two burly officers attempted to drag the criminal away. Pride surged through Moriarty as, out of the corner of his eye, he watched a lanky sergeant fall unconscious to the ground, blood streaming from a broken nose.  
It was then that he felt the barrel of a gun being pressed to his sweat-slick temple.  
“Now, Moran,” An unfamiliar voice snarled, “I suggest you stop struggling.”  
Moriarty saw his bodyguard’s eyes widen, obviously taking a moment to look for any other way to rescue Jim from the bullet which was mere inches away. It was fruitless, however, as even Moriarty’s great mind could see that – without dying himself – there was no way for either of them to avoid arrest. Sherlock Holmes had made every arrangement to ensure that, this time, he really had them.  
Moran’s chokehold on a young blonde police officer loosened imperceptibly and in a flash three others grabbed him, roughly shoving him across the kitchen to the table where their combined weight would keep him pinned down, as though the gun brushing Jim’s head wasn’t enough. They locked both arms behind his back, pulling them cruelly so as to stop any movement.  
“No! Stop, please – Sebby!” Moriarty yelled.  
John, too, had rushed towards them, shouting, and pulling at the unresponsive officers as they tightened their cuffs around his powerless wrists. Moran’s teeth were gritted, his eyes closed against the sight of the employer he had failed. The friend he had not protected. With the gun still to Jim’s head, it had not taken long for the two outlaws to be led to separate police cars parked haphazardly on the curb outside.  
Moriarty continued to scream Sebastian’s name until one officer threatened to knock his teeth out if he didn’t stop squalling like a puppy for its mother.  
He could see John Watson leaning out of the flat’s window as the cars pulled away, his usually kind, warm face taught with the knowledge of betrayal, and fear for two people he barely knew.  
John turned back towards his flatmate. Sherlock had leant against the kitchen counter, sipping his tea. Striding towards him, John swiped at his hands, a second mug smashing on the kitchen floor.  
“Why the hell would you do that, Sherlock?” He raged. “They came to us for help, they trusted us. He-” John turned away momentarily, breathing heavily out through his flared nostrils, “he may still die, Sherlock.”  
His boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, John internally snarled – said nothing. His face remained cold and impassive, as unfeeling as marble and twice as inhuman.  
“You really don’t care, do you? You don’t give a damn about anyone other than yourself.”  
Sherlock gazed straight back into John’s fiery blue eyes, his own grey as steel. “You did your duty, John. I did mine.”  
John’s mouth opened, in the vain hope of spitting out a scathing comment about Sherlock being a machine, about where he can shove his duty. But he could do nothing but stare, speechless, at the creature whom he had convinced himself cared for him. Sherlock Holmes cared for no-one.  
John Watson grabbed his coat from the hook, sprinting down the stairs two at a time, Sherlock’s frustrated calls of his name echoing behind him, unheard.  
*******  
The two criminals had reached the police station, and were unceremoniously manhandled along the corridors towards the cells. Jim did not even attempt an escape, too preoccupied with the fact that Sebastian could barely stand, his captors dragging him to his incarceration. He tried to tell them of his injuries, tried to make them understand. But none of the policemen listened to the frantic shouts of a psychopath.  
As Moriarty was turned into an open cell, he saw Sebastian writhe once more in a final, futile attempt to break free. Just as the pair lost sight of each other, blood blossomed across Moran’s jerking chest, and Jim screamed with raw terror.  
After Moriarty’s cell door had been locked firmly behind him, and the man himself had been hammering on the thick iron door for what seemed like hours, Dr. Watson crashed through the double doors at the end of the hallway. Relief crashed through the criminal.  
“John!” He yelled, his voice hoarse. “Dr. Watson, please, Sebastian – his stitches opened again – he’s bleeding – please – he’ll die-”  
While he had been speaking, John had reached his cell door.  
“I need you to calm down,” the doctor said levelly, out of breath yet still soothing, “You’ll only injure yourself if you remain this anxious.”  
“But Sebby – he’s going to die, isn’t he?” Salty tears began to fall from his eyes once more.  
“No, I swear. He’s going to be fine, I’ll keep him safe, ok?” John promised, passing a pure white handkerchief through the hatch for Jim to dry his tears.  
The man on the other side of the door nodded, roughly scrubbing away any evidence of his grief with the scrap of cloth.  
“Can I help?” He asked, desperately. “I shall worry if I’m stuck in here with nothing to do, please, I need to see him.”  
“I think it’s best you stay here Jim, I’ll look after him, you have my word. Just… write some poetry or compose a vi- a piano concerto, anything. You don’t need to worry he’ll be safe with me.”  
Moriarty nodded again, dejectedly, hearing the heavy boots of DI Lestrade rushing along the corridor towards John.  
“John, you’re not allowed in here, you know that, let alone -” He pulled the doctor away from the door, “talk to the prisoners.”  
“One of your prisoners is gravely injured, bullet wound to the chest. I fixed it earlier, but now – because of your officers – the stitches have torn open. I need to see him now.”  
“Look, mate, I can’t let you in there, he’s -” Lestrade began.  
“Damn it, Greg, I’m his doctor. That man requires urgent medical attention if he is to survive your prison which, last time I looked, criminals are, by law, entitled to. So unless you want to lose your position, Detective Inspector, and gain a lengthy stretch in prison yourself, let me treat my patient.”  
Gregory Lestrade for a moment tried in vain to resist the doctor’s glare, but soon pulled out a bunch of keys which he began to fumble through, looking for the one which opened the sniper’s cell. Finally, agonisingly slowly, the inspector turned the key in the lock, and John barged immediately past him, running out of Jim’s line of sight.  
“Christ.” He barely heard John murmur.  
“What? What is it? Is he ok, John? John!” Moriarty began to scream again, the yells almost uncontrollable. John said he’d be fine, Jim thought, he promised. Clinging to this thought, Jim was able to calm himself enough to listen.  
Several more police officers had run down the hallway. Someone was calling for an ambulance. John was yelling for someone to put pressure on the wound. Paramedics soon arrived, crashing through several sets of doors before they rushed past Jim. He called out again, trying to find out what was happening.  
Then there was a moment of silence. Jim caught Dr. Watson’s whisper.  
“Time of death… 12:09.”


	4. Chapter 4

James Moriarty was sitting on the slim metal bed, knees drawn up to his chest and fingers laced across the back of his dark head, gazing into nothing. The cold stone of the wall at his back leeched what little heat remained from the silent man. He hadn’t spoken for days.

Not that his captors minded; they hadn’t slept since they last held this criminal. Even with the cell door’s hatch firmly closed and locked, they had still heard his ramblings, words chosen with precision in order to efficiently drive each guard insane.

Since his sniper spoke his last, there had been in Moriarty’s head only a ringing silence, an agonising peace which he had not yet dared to fill. He encircled his trembling form tightly with his thin arms, which could never hope to provide the warmth and solace Moran’s had given him.

So he sat, wrapped in his muted memories, when the bone-jarring scrape of a heavy door on stone rang through the cell. He waded through his dream-like consciousness until he began to surface in the real world, dimly aware that, today, his guard was not alone behind his metal barrier to civilisation.

Stiffly, barely remembering how, he raised his heavy head, eyes red from insomnia, hair wild from his anxious fingers. A flash of gold shining in the dim prison light made his broken heart leap.

But it was another soldier.

“You look terrible.”

“A pleasure to see you, too, John. His voice was rough from unuse, harsh as death’s himself.

The guard followed the doctor into the cell, folding his arms across his chest in a feeble attempt to seem intimidating. If Jim hadn’t felt so hollow, he would have laughed, but he couldn’t muster a sound.

“You haven’t been eating.” Dr. Watson said, matter-of-factly.

“No.”

“Or sleeping.”

“No.” He had fallen into a fitful sleep the night Sebastian died, but he was haunted by the memory of a body passing his cell on a stretcher, carried away from him forever. Then it had begun to rain, and the blood stained body was lying in his arms, Jim again helpless to save him.

After that, he had forced his eyes to remain open, his tortured mind closed.

“You need to take better care of yourself, or you’ll only go the same way.” Jim only glared in response. “Look – I know, in here, it might not feel as though anyone cares – but – they do.” John finished weakly.

“Who?” Jim barked. “Who gives a damn about me?”

“Well, what about your family?”

“What family?” Jim Moriarty spat bitterly.

John let his mouth hang open for a moment, silent.

“Well,” he said, warmly, “you’ve got me at least.”

Jim looked up at the doctor, gaunt eyes shining with guilt and grief.

“Thank you, John.” He hesitated. “I wanted… I wanted to apologise, for what I did last year. You’re a good man, John Watson, and Sherlock may be a bastard – but he’s your bastard. I’m so sorry to have made you suffer like this. Even – even if it was just a trick.”

John wished with all his heart that he could say the same.

“Well, that’s all behind us now, don’t concern yourself with it. It’s you we need to worry about now.” He pulled a pork pie from his pocket. “Here. Mrs. Hudson’s speciality.”

Cautiously peeling away the cling film, James Moriarty took a tentative bite of the pastry. It was delicious, but after so long without food he almost brought it back up again.

“It’s lovely.” He told John, his voice muffled by the food. “Tell her for me, would you?”

His companion nodded as he tugged a flask of tea from his coat with a flourish. As John poured a cup for each of them, Jim spoke again.

“John, will you do something for me?”

“Of course.” He replied, leaning towards him to pass the criminal his steaming tea.

Jim cast his eyes to the ground, momentarily silent, before saying: “Stay with Sherlock Holmes.”

John blinked, his PG Tips forgotten.

“He’s not a bad person, John. I’m sure he can be just as unbearable as me sometimes, but – but you were happy together. Please don’t give that up for my sake.”

John smiled weakly. “I’ll try. It’ll take a while, but… God, I can’t stay angry at that man. He does this thing with his eyes; he looks like a lost puppy. He keeps telling me that he never had a dog, but I swear no man can do that look without learning from an expert.”

Jim chuckled to himself at the faraway look in the man’s eyes. But John’s eyes too soon changed to give an expression of worried guilt.

 “But… what he did, what he did to you – it was wrong. It was… inhuman.”

“He was perfectly justified, John. He’s been trying to get us put away for years.” Jim reassured him.

“But – still –“ John was interrupted by the heavy door scraping open to reveal Lestrade.

“You should leave now, John. It’s getting late, and – there are regulations to follow…”

He watched uncomfortably as John rose stiffly from the cold iron bed. He moved his eyes back to the criminal for a moment.

“I am very sorry, Jim. Sebastian was a good man. Whatever Sherlock says, he didn’t deserve this, and nor do you. If I can help, with anything… just ask for me, ok?”

 

“Thank you.” Jim replied simply as the door slammed shut behind the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one or two more chapters to go, now. Thanks to everyone who's been reading, you've all been so supportive of my first ever fic, it will certainly not be the last. This chapter's been a little slower, but I promise plenty more excitement to come.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I decided I wasn't happy with my original ending and so decided to add a two-chapter, more feels-ridden finale. The original, fluffier ending is still here - skip to chapter 7 if you'd rather read that. Still warnings for depression and self harm in this chapter.

If it weren’t for John Watson’s visits, Jim Moriarty wouldn’t have known how long he’d been locked away. John had entered his cell three times since their first meeting, staying for as long as the officers would allow. Jim was eating now, at least, but that was the only advicethe doctor had given him which he followed, since the nightmares had been even worse when he tried to sleep again. This time, it had been him on the rooftop, rifle in hand, aiming at a blond mop of hair below him. No matter how much he screamed and struggled, he couldn’t stop his numb, agonisingly steady finger from pulling back the trigger. Over the explosion in his hands, Jim could still hear the thud of flesh on concrete, see the body fallingthrough the smoke. Fixed as he was to the cold stone, no-one ran to the dying man’s side that night. The blood ran cold from the wound, a pool growing around him, larger and darker. It threatened to swallow Jim whole as he gazed into its depths at the body floating on a sea of crimson, which he himself had brought forth from the cooling corpse. 

He had woken with a start, a cold sweat enveloping him and chilling him to the bone. Wrapping his meagre blanket, which he had thrown to the floor during the night, around his trembling shoulders did nothing to alleviate his shudders. From then on, he had once again refused to allow his body to fall into a slumber, instead, whenever he began to feel drowsy, gouging at the skin of his thin arms until he drew blood. Only this thin blanket had kept themarks from Doctor Watson’s concerned gaze. 

John had left some time ago, leaving Jim alone, staring at the wall. 

 

He hadn’t shed a tear for Moran. 

He had grieved, of course he had grieved, but he was still numb. More shocked than upset, he had counted bricks, recited Oliver Twist to his echoing head, anything to force that cold state of mind to linger for as long as possible. But Moriarty knew that he couldn’t last forever. 

By his calculations, today was Saturday. If it were Saturday, it must have been around eleven by now, as John left later. There had been a job scheduled. It would have been a simple asphyxiation-in-a-dark-alley type affair, far beneath his sniper, but necessary. Strangulation was always his preferred method of disposing of those who knew too much. He found it rather poetic. 

If anyone had cared enough to ask James Moriarty whether he enjoyed rugby, he would have told them no. It was useless, uneventful and took up valuable time to suffer through. This, however, wouldn’t have been entirely true. 

Moran liked rugby, he loved it. He watched every Six Nations game, last week cheering on Italy to a glorious defeat to the French. Moriarty always seemed disinterested when the bodyguard lectured him on the sport’s rules and regulations, famous players or matches,but he was somehow intrigued. When he sat with Sebastian, a tiresome game suddenly became the most thrilling eighty minutes of his week. 

Until now, he had never known why, but at this moment he could see it plain as day. The passion in Sebastian’s eyes as he yelled at the captain, who was clearly cheating. Thejubilation which filled his entire being at a try for England, or Ireland. He had always supported Ireland, for Jim’s sake, even if they were playing against England as they had been this weekend. 

Due to the time-consuming nature of the job, Moran was going to record the match. By now, he would have returned to their headquarters, kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the fraying sofa with a bottle of beer, the television already flickering with the figures of burly sportsmen walking out onto the field to their national anthem and the roars of the crowd. Jim would have sat on the nearby armchair, claiming that he can’t work with this racket, so he may as well watch this appalling game. 

But instead, he was shivering under lock and key, alone and trembling in fear and grief as the memories of Moran rose up within him, a tide approaching inexorably until it swallowed him whole. 

He screamed. The spine-chilling sound stretched on and on until his lungs were empty and his cheeks damp. He yelled anew, rending the blanket as he tore it from his form. He fell from the bed, pounding his fists on the floor and walls until his hands were bloody and numb. Barely seeing through his tear-stained eyes, he lashed out at the iron bed-frame, pulling at the metal slats with no rational purpose. 

If his mind had been logical at that moment, he would have noticed the fact that his must now be a sound-proofed cell. That, or they simply didn’t give a damn about him, not after Sherlock. He ran now to the door, tugging at the handle and screaming to be allowed to see Sebastian. 

To his surprise, he fell backwards to the floor, cracking his head on the unyielding stone. Dazed, he lay still for a moment, gazing absently at the ceiling. When he at last found the strength to raise himself up on his elbows, he found himself looking through an open door into the dark, empty corridor beyond. 

 

For a moment, Jim couldn’t take in the scene before him. His addled mind, now suddenly sharpened, tried to rationalise the situation. Was this just typical police carelessness? Was it a trap? Perhaps it was that bastard Wesson, come back to finish him off as well, gunning him down the moment he stepped from his cell. 

He quickly decided that whatever awaited him out there, be it escape or death, was preferable to languishing in a stone box for the rest of his life, wallowing in memories and misery. 

Pressing himself against the doorframe, Jim peered cautiously down the corridor towards the double doors. It was entirely dark and empty, not even the snores of other prisoners marring the stillness. He turned his gaze the other way and froze when he caught sight of a guard not five metres from him. The man was slumped in a flimsy plastic chair, Jim not making out any movement. 

Stepping cautiously from the cell, Moriarty found that the guard was not roused by his movement. Jim slipped and fell, only just holding back a yelp as his hands met stone. Slowly turning his head, his gaze met the guard’s. 

The man’s eyes were closed. His long, reddish hair was ruffled as if by a struggle and plastered to his forehead with sweat. As Jim edged closer, he smelt the familiar, sweet tang of chloroform above the bitter odour of the spilt coffee which had brought him down. 

Rising to his feet once more, he saw a similarly stupefied guard at the end of the corridor, and the door beside him open. He didn’t look back at Moran’s old cell, as much as he needed to, instead forcing his eyes forwards to the only exit he had. 

 

As he strode through the lobby, full of more unconscious staff, he glimpsed a figure through a glass wall, huddled beneath a coat on one of the metal benches which adorned the prison waiting room. Apparently, John had stayed during the night to ensure that he could be on hand should there be an emergency with Jim. He felt again a rush of warmth towards the doctor, interlaced with a sickening hatred of the betrayal he was committing now. He shook the thought from his head, pushing through a final set of doors into the chill night air, relishing at last the crisp scents of London. As such, he didn’t see John Watson’s eyes follow him leave or hear him curse under his breath.  

There was no-one about but a few stray cats, hissing and pouncing on each other, on the other side of the road. It was this shrill sound that echoed in his head, reawakening a sleep-deprived dizziness which forced him to stagger into a nearby alleyway, sliding down the wall and coming to rest with the water in the gutter seeping through the thin cotton of his trousers. 

He tried to calm his breathing, counting the seconds as Seb once taught him to do whilst shooting. It was more difficult this time, without Sebastian, and with his mind churning with concerns. His rescuer was nowhere to be seen, had given no sign of their identity or intentions. His heart was beginning to race, and there was a pounding in his ears when strong hands locked around his arms and threw him bodily into the car which had just drawn up on the curb. 


	6. Chapter 6

Weak as he was, Jim strove against their grip, and then scrabbled at what turned out to be the door of a cab, but he soon realised his efforts were in vain. The taxi was empty, but for himself and the driver whose face was obscured by the separating glass and the cap slung low on his forehead. All of Jim’s hoarse questions were ignored, and so he was forced to wait, restlessly, for the next few minutes. 

The flashing of streetlights and shop windows was blinding after days of pure darkness, the shouts of drunken parties deafening in comparison to John’s worried voice. In spite of this, he could discern enough of his surrounding to see the cab was heading North. As it sped through narrow streets, the brief glimpse of his own front door made his eyes narrow when they slowed to a stop just moments later. 

The driver climbed out and opened his door in silence. After a few moments of defiance, Jim gave in to his curiosity and stepped gracefully onto the pavement. The cab was gone in an instant, leaving him alone. While the church was dark and its door closed, there was a gatebeside it leading to a graveyard which hung invitingly open, and he thought he could make out a light glimmering beyond it.  

He made his way slowly past the stones, keeping to the shadows by the hedge and prowling around the perimeter as he approached the flickering light. A tall figure was outlined by the light, standing stiffly before a fresh mound of earth. It was with a tired spite in his eyes that Jim Moriarty stood next to Sherlock Holmes, gazing down at a stone that read: Colonel Sebastian Moran. 

The two stood in silence for a few moments before Jim was handed a candle, which he took with only a slightly suspicious glance. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Moriarty let out a harsh laugh. He couldn’t help it, hearing the cold, statuesque figure offer such a pitiful sentiment. In his peripheral vision, eyes still fixed on the stone, he could make out Sherlock’s face falling, contorting with a genuine struggle to find the right words.  

“It was callous of me. You put your trust in us, in John’s skills, in my… My silence. I shouldn’t have betrayed that.” 

“Oh don’t beat yourself up. It’s what I would have done.” He felt a rooftop conversation echo between them in the silence that followed. “John’s a good man, you do well toemulate him. It makes you a slightly bearable human being.” 

Sherlock smirked beside him, his stiff form seemingly lightened at the mention of the man. He didn’t react, however, to the faint sound of footsteps back at the gate, of gravel being crushed under foot. God knows how he made it so far in the army, Jim thought, recalling with fondness his own soldier’s lethal, feather-light tread. 

He sighed, a pain in his chest which he pushed down inside himself, out of sight. Turning away from the stone, he said with a mocking lightness,“So, time to slap the cuffs back on, detective?” 

“No.” Sherlock looked down at him, the ghost of a smile on his features. The man bent down, placing his candle gently on the ground at the foot of the grave. 

“Now, you have your second chance. You walk out of here with your freedom intact.” 

Jim rarely admitted to being surprised by anyone’s actions, least of all Sherlock Holmes’. This time, however, it seemed he was willing to atone for what John considered his sins much more than he had predicted. 

“That’s awfully generous of you, Sherlock. I’m not sure I deserve such courtesy.” 

“Oh no, you don’t, which is why I expect never to see or hear of you again. I shan’t be so merciful next time.” His steel gaze glinted with the fire of the chase he so loved, and Jim was somewhat comforted to see his old Sherlock in amongst John’s. 

“Of course.” He nodded with grudging respect, watching as the other man melted away into the shadows, leaving him with cold stone his only company. 

Jim didn’t spend long alone there. He had knelt down in the damp grass, his numb hand clasping the shoulder of the tombstone, thumb rubbing its rough surface. Someone had left a single, blood red rose on the grave, its plucked flower so fresh it still seemed alive. The flickering light of the candle picked out each of its razor-sharp thorns under Moriarty’s unreadable gaze. 

 

The apartment was warm and soothing, in spite of its strange emptiness. Unsure what to do with himself, Jim perched on the edge of the old sofa. It was a relic Sebastian insisted they keep due to its uncommon comfort – often necessary when he was kicked out of their room so his boss could think.  

He switched the television on to seek a distracting noise only to find a repeat of the long awaited final of the Six Nations. As the hoots of the passionate spectators filled the room, Jim found himself a little more at ease. The commentators inspired a sort of premature nostalgia in him, and memories began to clutter his normally sharp mind.  

He reached for the whisky in the sideboard, the fact he had to rise on his toes informing him of who had been the last to indulge in the £5000 bottle. After pouring himself a glass, he decided also to scoop up the pistol resting on the counter. He knew it was his imagination which told him it still felt warm, as if someone had just set it down before they left the room. But it was still calming, like a handshake or an embrace.  

He set about attempting to polish the familiar dark metal, feeling closer to his departed sniper with every moment. As time went on, he could feel a plan forming inexorably in the back of his mind. He flicked the Beretta’s safety on and off while deliberated his future, every move he could make and where it would lead him. 

It was only when the final whistle blew that he made his decision. There was a job he had to do, and he couldn’t give it up. Not for Sherlock, not for anyone. He had a duty to this. Just one more job. 

He jogged down a hidden staircase into their state-of-the-art, soundproof bunker, kitted out especially for Sebastian to hone his skills with his frankly ludicrous collection of guns while retaining their enviable location in central London. The structure itself had been there long before the criminal pair had moved in, a blessed gift from a rich and paranoid survivor of the cold war, which the two had found ample use for themselves. 

He stroked the barrel of the gun in his pocket as he set up the range for himself for the first time since his bodyguard had forced him to have lessons to defend himself. Jim had never become that good, even under such expert tutelage; he had only the skills to slow an attacker long enough to escape, and they’d still be well enough to return to finish him off. Of course, before, his sniper would never have given them that chance. 

Jim took up his position at the end of the range, staring down it at the humanoid targets as he arranged himself in the correct stance. While he’d never had cause to use it, the position came easily to him, feeling the sniper’s warm body behind him once more, encouraging his own to mirror his impeccable posture. 

He took a shot, cursing as it whistled wide. He tried again, firing several in quick succession, and was pleased to see them land closer and closer to where a brain might be. He quickly emptied magazine after magazine into the line of targets, his shots becoming more and more accurate as he continued to practise. 

At last, a cartridge tinkled to the floor. The final round tore through the paper target, and through the picture pinned to it. Leaving a gaping hole in Billy Wesson's face, and a twisted smile on Jim Moriarty's.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A longer chapter to end, but I couldn't bear to leave you all in suspense by splitting it. Do please be careful, this is my first fic, so I don't know much about this, but trigger warnings of depression and self-harm in this chapter. If you've read up to this, you probably know what to expect, but please don't read if anything like that could affect you - stay safe and happy, and enjoy my final chapter.))
> 
> So this is the fluffier ending, written when I was too young to bring myself to hurt my favourite characters. Thank god I've learnt better, huh?

If it weren’t for John Watson’s visits, Jim Moriarty wouldn’t have known how long he’d been locked away. John had entered his cell three times since their first meeting, staying for as long as the officers would allow. Jim was eating now, at least, but that was the only advice the doctor had given him which he followed. The nightmares had been even worse when he tried to sleep again.  
This time, it had been him on the rooftop, rifle in hand, aiming at a blonde mop of hair below him. No matter how much he screamed and struggled, he couldn’t stop his numb, agonisingly steady finger from pulling back the trigger. Over the explosion in his hands, Jim could still hear the thud of flesh on concrete; see the body falling through the smoke. Fixed as he was to the cold stone, no-one ran to the dying man’s side that night. The blood ran cold from the wound, a pool growing around him, larger and darker, threatening to swallow Jim whole as he gazed into its depths at the body floating on a sea of crimson which he himself had brought forth from the cooling corpse.  
He had woken with a start, a cold sweat enveloping him and chilling him to the bone. Wrapping his meagre blanket, which he had thrown to the floor during the night, around his trembling shoulders did nothing to alleviate his shudders. From then on, he had once again refused to allow his body to fall into a slumber instead, whenever he began to feel drowsy, gouging at the skin of his thin arms until he drew blood. Only this thin blanket had kept the marks from Doctor Watson’s concerned gaze.  
John had left some time ago, leaving Jim alone, staring at the wall.  
He hadn’t shed a tear for Moran.  
He had grieved, of course he had grieved, but he was still numb. More shocked than upset, he had counted bricks, recited Oliver Twist to his echoing head, anything to force that cold state of mind to linger for as long as possible. But Moriarty knew that he couldn’t last forever.  
By his calculations, today was Saturday. If it were Saturday, it must have been around eleven by now, as John left later. There had been a job scheduled for Saturday. It would have been a simple asphyxiation-in-a-dark-alley type affair, far beneath his sniper, but necessary. Strangulation was always his preferred method of disposing of those who knew too much. He found it rather poetic.  
If anyone had cared enough to ask James Moriarty whether he enjoyed rugby, he would have told them no. It was useless, uneventful and took up valuable time to suffer through. This, however, wouldn’t have been entirely true.  
Moran liked rugby, he loved it. He watched every Six Nations game, last week cheering on Italy to a glorious defeat to the French. Moriarty always seemed disinterested when the bodyguard lectured him on the sport’s rules and regulations, famous players or matches, but he was somehow intrigued. When he sat with Sebastian, a tiresome game suddenly became the most thrilling eighty minutes of his week.  
Until now, he had never known why, but at this moment he could see it plain as day. The passion in Sebastian’s eyes as he yelled at the captain, who was clearly cheating. The jubilation which filled his entire being at a try for England, or Ireland. He had always supported Ireland, for Jim’s sake, even if they were playing against England as they had been this weekend.  
Due to the time-consuming nature of the job, Moran was going to record the match. By now, he would have returned to their headquarters, kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the luxurious clean sofa with a can of beer and the television already flickering with the figures of burly sportsmen walking out onto the field to their national anthem and the roars of the crowd. Jim would have sat on the nearby armchair, claiming that he can’t work with this racket, so he may as well watch this appalling game.  
But instead, he was shivering under lock and key, alone and trembling in fear and grief as the memories of Moran rose up within him, a tide approaching inexorably until it swallowed him whole.  
He screamed. The spine-chilling sound stretched on and on until his lungs were empty and his cheeks damp. He yelled anew, rending the blanket as he tore it from his form. He fell from the bed, pounding his fists on the floor and walls until his hands were bloody and numb. Barely seeing through his tear-stained eyes, he lashed out at the iron bed-frame, pulling at the metal slats with no rational purpose.  
If his mind had been logical at that moment, he would have noticed the fact that his must now be a sound-proofed cell. That, or they simply didn’t give a damn about him, not after Sherlock. He ran now to the door, tugging at the handle and screaming to be allowed to see Sebastian.  
To his surprise, he fell backwards to the floor, cracking his head on the unyielding stone. Dazed, he lay still for a moment, gazing absently at the ceiling. When he at last found the strength to raise himself up on his elbows, he found himself looking through an open door into the dark, empty corridor beyond.

For a moment, Jim couldn’t take in the scene before him. His addled mind, now suddenly sharpened, tried to rationalise the situation. Was this just typical police carelessness? Was it a trap? Perhaps it was that bastard Wesson, come back to finish him off as well, gunning him down the moment he stepped from his cell.  
He quickly decided that whatever awaited him out there, be it escape or death, was preferable to languishing in a stone box for the rest of his life, wallowing in memories and misery.  
Pressing himself against the doorframe, Jim peered cautiously down the corridor towards the double doors. It was entirely dark and empty, not even the snores of other prisoners marring the stillness. He turned his gaze the other way and froze when he caught sight of a guard not five metres from him. The man was slumped in a flimsy plastic chair, Jim not making out any movement.  
Slowly stepping from the cell, Jim found that the guard was not roused by his movement. Jim slipped and fell, only just holding back a yelp as his hands met stone. Slowly turning his head, his gaze met the guard’s.  
The eyes looking back at him were glassy and blank. Only then did Jim notice the familiar metallic taint in his nostrils of what he had slipped on. Jim didn’t bother to hide the sound of his footsteps now as he approached the doors through which Moran had once vanished, knowing that whoever had killed the first guard would not have hesitated in bestowing the same fate on every other in the building.  
As he strode through the lobby, he glimpsed a figure through a glass wall, huddled beneath a coat on one of the metal benches which adorned the prison waiting room. Apparently, John had stayed every night to ensure that he could be on hand should there be an emergency with Jim. He felt again a rush of warmth towards the doctor, interlaced with a sickening hatred of the betrayal he was committing now.  
Then he wondered why his ‘saviour’ hadn’t killed him. If every other living thing in the prison had had their throat slit to allow his escape, why not this man too?  
He shook the thought from his head, pushing through a final set of doors into the chill night air, relishing at last the crisp scents of London. As such, he didn’t see John Watson’s eyes follow him leave or hear him curse under his breath.  
Turning left, Jim slunk along the mercifully clear road, keeping to the shadows as he kept a keen look out for anyone choosing to join him in the empty street. He steeled himself for a moment before swiftly striding beneath the bright lights of a level crossing, his head held low.  
Almost immediately, James Moriarty veered into one of his more often used alleyways, leaning against one wall to catch his breath and clear his mind. Gazing up at the stars, mostly unobscured by cloud, he began to feel human again. As long as he was out, there was a glimmer of hope for him, a slim chance that continuing his old business would bring him back to his old self. Jim didn’t like the idea of coldly casting aside all thought of Sebastian Moran, but he could see no other course of action. No other way of maintaining his position within the criminal world, everything he had worked for – they had worked for. Together.  
Jim tensed as he made out a gloomy, indistinct figure approaching him from the dim dead-end of the alley. As he strained to discern the man’s face from the shadows surrounding him, he shifted his weight from the wall to his feet, ready to flee from Wesson’s hastily hired men. The pale face of the moon slipped out from behind a veil of cloud, illuminating the visage of the man who had rescued him. Again.  
“Sebastian?” The hoarse name ghosted from his lips like a supplication.  
The sniper grinned. “You did give me a few tips on faking my own death.”  
“Oh, Sebby!” Jim sobbed, leaping forward to fling his arms around his bodyguard’s neck. Sebastian’s fingers stroked his hair soothingly as their lips connected, his warmth enveloping his shaking employer.  
Moriarty heard a figure jog up behind them, slightly out of breath, making vague noises of disbelief. He was rather surprised that he hadn’t noticed John following him, but at that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care, wrapping himself tighter around Moran merely to reassure himself of his presence. However, his sniper pulled his head back, gazing into Jim’s eyes.  
“And, of course,” he flicked his eyes towards the doctor, “I did have a little help.”  
When Sherlock Holmes rounded the corner of the alley, his face portrayed a lingering guilt and a burgeoning hope of John’s forgiveness.  
“I, um-” the usually eloquent man stumbled over his words, “you were right, John, I see that now. I mean, I shouldn’t have – well, I-”  
“Oh, shut up, Sherlock.” John interrupted fondly, before folding the anxious man in his arms.  
Sebastian, too, pulled Jim in tighter, resting his forehead on the shorter man’s before kissing him again.  
The detectives and the criminals, side-by-side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope everyone enjoyed the new ending; thank you to everyone who read this, and supported my very first fic xx


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